D (17 page)

"That guy was in the Santa Claus costume?"

"No. The driver even isn't sure if he had a white beard. 'Perhaps he did, or maybe it was just snow-covered.' And even if it was Wash, to refuel from a gas can is not a crime. He may simply had found a gas station with a good price and stocked up with fuel there. Anyway, it's less suspicious than using an assumed name."

"Not only killers register under assumed names," John ob
jected. "For example, adulterers do. And not only them. There are some people who are just intensely private and avoid leaving any personal information anywhere."

"You use your head, trainee," Douglas nodded approv
ingly. "But we should make a choice. The local police will of course investigate in both places, and I would like to believe they will do it assiduously enough... though, to tell the truth, they don't like to listen to us until their noses are stuck right into the shit. So you and I should not lose the control over the situation and have to choose one of two opposite directions. What do you think we should do?"

John frowned for a second, then stated resolutely: "We should return to the office, sir. To look once more through the databases."

"OK."

With several mouse clicks Rockston came to a conclusion.

"I would bet on Wash, sir."

"Why?"

"Look at their driver's records. Wash had not a single driving offense. And Sullivan was ticketed for illegal parking, for speeding..."

"And we know that our son of a bitch is very careful," Douglas caught the idea and added with a laugh: "Seems to me, it's the first case in my career when good lawful behavior serves as a basis for suspicion. But you are probably right. We'll fly to Malcolmtown."

"Are you sure he is still there, sir?"

"The truck passed him late yesterday afternoon, and we believe that he doesn't drive in the dark during a snowfall. That means he could leave the town not earlier than this morning. But by this time the state police had been already notified, and he would have been already intercepted by officers posted either here or here," Douglas showed on the map. "He's still in town. And, probably, isn't wasting any time. Let's go."

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Prime? Sergeant Jills here. Is your son at home?"

"Just a minute, I'll look... No, apparently he went out to play. What happened? Did Greg do something wrong?"

"No, don't worry. May I talk to your husband?"

"He hasn't come home from work yet. Sergeant, what's the matter?"

"If your son returns, please, try to keep him at home."

"OK, but will you explain to me what this is all about?!"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Prime. We simply got information that there's a man in town, who... er... pesters children and shows them obscenities. This tip may be false–most likely it is–but currently we're are checking it out."

"A flasher? I am a big girl, sergeant, and you can say what you mean."

"Yeah, something like that. Also our information says that he can be dressed as Santa Claus."

"Well, if so, he'll hardly manage to entice Greg. Though my husband and I didn't tell him Santa doesn't exist, it seems to me that he understands that himself already."

As usual, Nicolas noticed the future victim the first.

After several hours of fruitless waiting (there were some possibilities, but, having carefully estimated the probability of witnesses, he decided not to risk it) all, at last, went extremely well. The boy was obviously alone and went straight to the park. For a moment, a suspicion flashed in Nicolas' mind that someone could be waiting for the kid in the park–the boy stepped there so purposefully, not like just a stroller. But no, it was hardly probable. The snow showed no one else's footprints. However, a friend of the bad boy could appear later. But even if so–the park is big enough, and he will have time to lead the boy far away from the meeting point. And then, after finding out all that this nasty little thing knows, maybe he will come also for the uninvited visitor, who is for certain of the same age...

Standing behind a high pine, Nicolas studied his future prey, fixing the smallest details. It's very important to get a rap
port at once, to cause reckless trust... It's a pity that no psychology could allow him to guess a name–this would have worked perfectly. However, the proper choice of a gift works wonders, too. So, the boy is obviously from an advantaged family–not rich, but advantaged. At the same time, both his parents most likely work and give him less attention than he would like. When he left home, nobody saw him off, otherwise his scarf would have been adjusted... There is for certain a computer in his house and most probably not only one, so a video game would not amaze him–he has plenty of them. His face is obviously not silly, and his inward life is complex enough for, taking into account the previous conclusions, the existence of some important misunderstanding between him and his parents; they think that they do the best for him, but actually it turns out to the contrary... He is not overweight, but his figure, gait, and general appearance demonstrate a lack of athletic skills, so hockey sticks and baseball bats are absolutely not for him. He's a typical four-eyes straight-A student–who is of course offended by his classmates–but not a cowed timid boy at all; oh no, the resolute air of this clever little face doesn't promise anything good to his enemies! If only he had a possibility for vengeance! Perhaps a real pistol would be the best gift for him, but it is, of course, not appropriate and, moreover, not in the interests of the good Santa. Toy weapons also don't suit–he is not one of those dreamers who could be content with illusion instead of reality. Soldiers, dinosaurs, and so on are also not right here–he still may have some liking for such toys, but improbably dreams of them. Here is obviously a scientific and technical mentality, an aspiration to accuracy and attention to details, a bent on logicality and validity, a desire that all be real or, at least, as close to real as possible. He undoubtedly likes to read, but at the same time he is too young to prefer books to toys. That indicates an exact model of some machine, and aggression, let's not forget how much aggression is hidden in this excellent student who cannot fight and is tormented by those whom he despises... A tank? No, a tank crawls, and he dreams to raise over his enemies whom he considers much below himself–so, of course, a plane, a heavily armed plane, a bomber!

"Good evening, young man!" No baby talk, no lisping–he hates it, but a solid adult reference should be pleasant for him...

And at this moment Nicolas understood that he had made some error in his judgment. Because in the eyes which turned to him, he read not only an expected surprise, but fear and hatred. And these feelings didn't disappear when the boy understood that it was Santa Claus before him. More likely, even to the contrary.

But anyway it was too late to back off. And there was no need for it. Even if Nicolas hasn't considered something, can't he easily cope with a nine-year brat?

Blades rhythmically whirred overhead. Outside the cock
pit, it was dusk already; the pilot switched the illumination on, and the instrument panel lit up with soft amber light. Below the helicopter and very close to it, black trees on white snow ran back; from such a perspective one could see that they grew sparser than it seemed from the ground level. From above, low gray clouds hung even closer; periodically they, curling, surrounded the cabin, and then the whole world outside disappeared. Or snow pellets densely covered the windshield, which was not much better.

"Visibility as good as hell," the pilot complained, "and will be only worse further. I don't know how we'll fly to Mal
colmtown. That is, we will–by instruments, but I don't know what you hope to accomplish out there."

"Is it possible to descend a bit more?" John asked without any real hope.

"Where? We're already flying almost on top of the trees. If we encounter a radio mast, it's bye-bye. We need either to climb over the clouds or to land and continue by car."

"It'll take two hours to get there by car," objected Douglas. "And he kills usually just at this time, at sunset. Every minute can cost lives."

"Oh yeah–ours," the pilot grumbled. "As you want, gentlemen–I'll deliver you to the place, but then I guarantee nothing."

"All right, we'll see then," Douglas waved away.

"That's what I doubt."

"You have come after all," Greg said.

"I always come to those who need me," Santa answered.

"You are not a disguised actor? Not 'an assistant?' You are indeed the real... magic Santa Claus?" Gregory faltered on a hated word.

"Absolutely real. And if you are so mistrustful, look what I have brought for you..."

"Do you swear on your life that you're telling the truth?" Gregory interrupted, ignoring the hand diving in the bag.

"I do," Santa smiled, and Greg internally rejoiced. Done! Now his position is faultless! If this creature has lied, he deserved death according to his own words. And if he has told the truth then a weapon can't harm a magic being, so an attempt is not an evil deed.

That's what he'll say, of course, if the weapon doesn't work.

Meanwhile Santa took from his bag a plane. With an air of triumph, he rotated the propellers of all four motors, moved the small barrels of defensive turrets, showing that they also turn, and offered the model to the boy.

"Strategic bomber Boeing B-29 Superfortress," skillfully stated Greg, examining the gift from all angles. "From such a plane a nuclear bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. The bomb was called 'Little Boy.' 'Little Boy' killed 70 thousand people."

"You are very clever," Santa said. "And you know a lot. Much more than other boys of your age. (Greg couldn't keep him
self from making a contemptuous grimace). And do you want to learn something more? I can show you my sleigh and explain how it works. After all it is interesting to you how it can fly, isn't it?

"Is it the truth?"

"Of course it is! Let's go, I landed in the middle of the park."

Greg followed Santa, thinking that if this being indeed would show and explain all this, the main plan should be post
poned. But not canceled completely, certainly not. Simply it is necessary first to find out the enemy's secrets, as clever military commanders always do.

He was carrying the plane by the fuselage, and the wind, blowing in short gusts, rotated its propellers. Greg imagined how the motors of the "Enola Gay" roared approaching its target. It ap
peared to him so clearly that he really distinguished a sound coming from the sky... But it wasn't the even buzz of a bomber. It was the choppy whirring of a distant helicopter.

Santa, seemingly, heard this sound, too, and it perturbed him.

"Come faster!" he exclaimed, turning back over his shoulder. "There!"

The red mitten pointed to an arbor standing on a bank of the frozen pond. The arbor was big and old, with the peeled off stone columns and a crack meandering through the domed roof. No benches remained inside it. Sinking in the snow, Santa and the boy ran to it and dived under the roof just seconds before the heli
copter rumbled deep-voiced over them, invisible in low overcast.

"Why did we hurry like that?" Greg exactingly asked, panting. The entire floor of the arbor had been covered by deep snow–a bit less in the center than along the edges.

"We had to," Santa conspiratorially winked, "I shouldn't be seen by adults now."

The noise of the helicopter gradually went away and at last completely faded out in the distance.

"Well, so when will we go to the sleigh?" the boy reminded.

"Later," Santa murmured, "the sleigh flies only when it is completely dark. And now..." he paused, listening, and, having heard no suspicious sounds, finished... "now you must undress."

"What?"

"Undress, be a good boy," demanded the voice which sud
denly became hoarse, "you'll see, you will like it."

"Oh, just a minute," Greg answered with unexpected ease, though his heart beat already at some ultrasonic frequency and his fingers shivered when he unbuttoned his jacket. He carefully placed the plane on snow.

"Well, how long are you going to dawdle?" asked a dissatisfied voice.

"Just now," mumbled Gregory, resting his chin against his breast, "my button is stuck..."

The being in red bent down to him, ready to tear off the hindrance if necessary. At the very same time the boy jerked open his jacket, snatching out from the left inner pocket a bottle from which he had already taken out the glass stopper. The colorless liquid with a caustic smell splashed directly in the red face bent over him. Hydrochloric acid from a set for young chemists (which was intended for older schoolboys, but Greg had persuaded his mom) was not very concentrated–but it got into Santa's eyes and was quite sufficient to make him howl wildly with pain, crawling both hands about his face. At the next second a keen knife jerked from the right inner pocket sparkled in the air–it was Greg's main weapon upon which he put special hopes. He understood that his childish strength–and the length of his self-made knife–may be insufficient to punch through the red jacket and the flesh to the vital organs. Therefore he raised his hand and slashed the throat of the blinded and howling enemy with the sharp edge. Blood jetted fanlike, sprinkling the snow, Greg's clothing, and his face. The boy grasped the knife in his other hand and slashed Santa's throat from the other side.